It was the Stately Southerner, that carried the Stripes and Stars,
The whitling wind from west-nor'-west blew through her pitch-pine spars.
With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung up to the gale,
'Twas an autumn night, we raised the light on the Old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night; the wind blew steady and strong,
As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along.
With the fiery foam beneath her bows the white wave she did spread,
And bending alow her bosom in mow she buried her lee cathead.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,
And 'neath the press of her ponderous jib the boom bent like a hoop;
And the groaning waterways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,
But he only laughed as he gazed abaft at the white and glist'ning track.

The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy along the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,
And that sterling light on Tuskar Rock, where the old bell tolls each hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower.

What looms upon our starboard bow, what hangs upon the breeze?
'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees,
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her stunted spars
We saw that our morning visitor was a British man-o'-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then as a shot ahead of us passed :
"Haul snug your flowing courses! Lay your topsails to the mast!"
Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,
And we answered back by a solid broadside from the deck of our patriot bark.

"Out booms! Out booms!" our skipper cried: "Out booms and give her sheet!"
For the swiftest keel that ever was launched in all of the British fleet
Came pondering down upon us with the white foam at her bow;
"Out booms! Out booms! and give her sheet! spare not your canvas now!"

But a swifter keel was 'neath our feet, nor did our sea-boys dread
When the Star-spangled banner was hoisted; to the mizzen peak was spread,
And amid a thundering shower of shot with stunsails hoisting away,
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

Hill you ho, boys; Let her go, boys;
Bring her head round, now all together.
Hill you ho, boys; Let her go, boys;
Sailing home, home to Mingulay.

What care we though white the Minch is?
What care we for wind or weather?
Let her go boys! ev'ry inch is
Wearing home, home to Mingulay.

Wives are waiting on the bank, or
Looking seaward from the heather;
Pull her round boys! and we'll anchor,
'Ere the sun sets at Mingulay.

Oh what is the bane of a lightkeeper’s life
That causes him worry, struggle and strife,
That makes him use cuss words and beat on his wife?
It’s BRASSWORK

What makes him look ghastly consumptive and thin,
What robes him of health, vigor and vim,
And causes despair and drives him to sin?
It’s BRASSWORK

The devil himself could never invent,
A material causing more world wide lament,
And in Uncle Sam’s service about ninety percent
Is BRASSWORK

The lamp in the tower, reflector and shade,
The tools and accessories pass in the parade,
As a matter of fact the whole outfit is made
Of BRASSWORK

The oil containers I polish until
My poor back is broken, aching and still,
Each gallon, each quart, each pint and gill
Is BRASSWORK

I lay down to slumber all weary and sore,
I walk in my sleep, I awake with a snore,
And I’m shining the knob on my bedchamber door
That BRASSWORK

From pillar to post rags and polish I tote,
I’m never without them, for you will please note,
That even the buttons I wear on my coat,
Are BRASSWORK

The machinery, clockwork, and fog signal bell,
The coals hods, the dustpans, the pump in the well,
No I’ll leave it to you mates...If this isn’t...well,
BRASSWORK

I dig, scrub and polish, and work with a might,
And just when I get it all shining and bright,
In come the fog like a thief in the night,
Goodbye BRASSWORK

I start the next day when noontime draws near,
A boatload of summer visitors appear,
For no other reason than to smooch and besmear,
My BRASSWORK

So it goes along all summer, and along in the fall,
Comes the district machinists to overhaul,
and rub dirty paws all over,
My BRASSWORK

And again in the spring, if per chance it may be,
An efficiency star is awarded to me,
I open the package and what do I see?
More BRASSWORK

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud,
In the short span of life that he is allowed,
If all the lining in every dark cloud,
Is BRASSWORK

And when I have polished until I am cold,
And I have taken my oath to the Heavenly fold,
Will my harp and my crown be made of pure gold?
No! BRASSWORK